


Trials by Ghost

by okapi



Series: Harpooned 'verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Aokigahara forest, Arson, Dark, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!mycroft, Femlock, Fluff, Frottage, Gender or Sex Swap, Guide John, Haunted Houses, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Fights a Ghost, Orphanage, Roller Coasters, Sentinel Sherlock Holmes, Sentinel/Guide, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Suicide, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-10 11:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12298647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Sentinel Sherlock & Guide John test their pair-bond.Sherlock & John celebrate the end of the trial. Warning for frottage and mentions of cunnilingus.Originally posted November 2016 & deleted. This is an edited re-post for Halloween & the Kinktober Day 6 prompt: bonds (telepathic & empathetic) and Day 30: cunnilingus.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally posted this (called simply "Trials") in November 2016 and then deleted it in January 2017. I decided to edit it and re-post for the Kinktober Day 6 prompt: bonds (telepathic & empathetic) and for Halloween.
> 
> It was inspired by Margee Kerr's Scream: _Chilling Adventures in the Science of Fear_. I hope you enjoy.

Sherlock tapped her fingers along the railing as the queue advanced.

Clever trial. A worthy test of a Sentinel.

Right motivation. Right obstacles.

Find a needle in a haystack.

Find a Guide in a crowd of Mutes.

Find John in an amusement park full of many people who were not John.

No puzzle or problem could motivate Sherlock more than finding John, and a large amusement park was just the type of environment that she, and any Sentinel with a modicum of self-preservation, would avoid if possible. The constant, pointless sensory assault was, at best, irritating and at worst, dangerous, as it might obscure what was truly relevant, distract from what was truly important.

Truly relevant meant related to the problem or puzzle or question at hand.

And truly important was, of course, John.

If asked, Sherlock would say that John had been her Guide ever since their paths had crossed on a crowded London tube platform more than a year ago. Soon after they met, John had repaired Sherlock’s damaged Mind Palace, and, in return, Sherlock had slain John’s fear, quite literally, with a harpoon.

The pair-bond formed shortly afterwards.

And now they solved crimes. And John blogged about it. And, on occasion, Sherlock forgot her knickers, which sent Mycroft into a splendid state of apoplexy and John into a splendid state of arousal.

And apart from crime and knickers, John had taught Sherlock to appreciate the beauty of Christmas, and Sherlock had aided John when her desire to help others endangered her own well-being.

This, however, was a trial, a test, a game.

Hide and seek.

John’s shields were up. Sherlock’s shields were not.

Sherlock was continually monitoring and tweaking her configuration of sensory inputs, allowing more of one stream while limiting another. The ease with which she made these changes and her ability to make them at all without overwhelming herself was a direct result of her work with John. For when they weren’t solving crimes, or enjoying a quiet domestic life together, they were exploring their abilities as Sentinel and Guide separately as well as a bonded pair.

And though they were learning about themselves and each other and strengthening their bond every day, she and John had never tested themselves on a scale as complex and grand as this one.

The game had appealed to both.

And now here they were.

Well, here Sherlock was. Separated from John, but still projecting onto her.

Sherlock hoped that, even with shields raised, John would sense her presence. She imagined her projections to be much like her knock when a case arose in the wee hours of the morning, soft raps on John’s bedroom door followed by an impatient whisper.

**_Come if convenient, John. If inconvenient, come all the same!_ **

But convenient or not, John would not come, that is, she would not reveal herself.

That was Sherlock’s solo part of the game.

The challenge was to find John while navigating the sensory deluge of the amusement park without any telepathic, empathetic hand-holding from her Guide.

And there was a clock ticking. Somewhere.

Clever trial. Perfect, really.

Now Sherlock just had to get on with it.

And find her Guide.

\---

Sherlock’s senses were far more acute than those of Mute or Guide, but the five were not equally strong or equally useful in every circumstance.

Sherlock scanned the far end of the long queue, comparing silhouettes to a mental outline of John. She blocked the _click-click-click_ of the climbing roller coaster cars and the ground-shaking thunder of falling ones as she listened for John’s voice in screams and shrieks. Then her attention shifted towards the nearby concession stand, hoping to catch a tell-tale ‘ta.’

No John.

Sherlock took a long, deep breath through her nose.

She was, after all, a sleuthhound.

Scent was the first sensory impression that Sherlock had collected of John, and she knew John’s fragrance, variations and unchanging notes, as she knew nothing else in her life and she guarded it—literally, in her Mind Palace, in a safe, in a wing of archived data on John—with her life.

It was John’s scent that had led Sherlock to the queue for the roller coaster.

John had been here, and not too long ago, but she was not in one of the roller coaster cars now and it was highly improbable that she was hidden along the scaffolding itself. Nevertheless, Sherlock wanted to eliminate the possibility, and the elevated track would give Sherlock an excellent view of the rest of the park.

And the fact was that Sherlock had never ridden a roller coaster, and she was always keen to add novel experiences to the archive in her Mind Palace. It would be an experiment. Perhaps that was why John had led her here. It was the kind of thing John would think to do.

And thinking of things that John would do, Sherlock reminded herself to take a photograph of the snow-capped mountain in the distance during the ride. John would like it, perhaps enough to include it in her own variation of a Mind Palace. John’s Guide-world was where she housed her empathy; it had resembled a barren desert war zone when she and Sherlock had met, but now, with Sherlock’s help, it featured an ever-expanding oasis of green.

Sherlock neared the boarding platform for the roller coaster. The part of her mind that wasn’t searching and filtering was thinking of numbers.

John would often sigh and say, “How we met! It’s nothing short of a miracle! What are the odds?”

Sherlock knew the odds, for she had calculated them more than once, but computation never lessened the wonder of it.

She looked up at the scaffolding.

One thousand was a number. Metres. The length of the roller coaster track.

One hundred twenty-one was another number. Degrees-past-vertical. The angle of the record-breaking drop.

One hundred twelve. Seconds. The duration of the ride. “One?”

Sherlock nodded. She took her place.

Two girls joined her in the car.

Sherlock studied them.

Twins. Identical.

Jumpers, also identical, save for colour, one pink, one blue.

Dark straight hair with ribbons matching the jumpers.

Not-Johns. Boring.

Instructions in several languages.

A sharp jerk.

And then a descent into darkness at a speed of one hundred kilometres an hour.

* * *

One hundred kilometres an hour.

Enough to take even a Sentinel’s brain off-line and send her body into a heightened arousal state.

Stimulated amygdala triggering sympathetic nervous system to prepare for fight or flight. Pupils, bronchioles dilated. Rate and force of contraction of heart increased. Peristalsis inhibited.

Sherlock’s parasympathetic nervous system quickly caught up with its sympathetic cousin.

No _real_ danger.

She was more likely to be executed by a foreign government than die here.

The car ascended at a ninety-degree angle, then descended at a ninety-degree angle.

Called a ‘top hat.’

As the car crested the hill, the girls beside Sherlock erupted into gleeful screams.

Sherlock smiled. And closed her eyes.

* * *

Weightlessness.

Sherlock was flying.

And it was glorious.

After only two hills, she craved more, but the car had slowed to an ominous vertical _click-click-click_ climb.

Stomach drop.

Internal organs descending with the body cavity. Signals from the vagus nerve to brain indicating threat.

A beautiful mountain. A clear blue sky.

The peak held Sherlock’s attention until gravity rudely interrupted.

The track, the world beneath her was gone.

Another cascade of fight-or-flight chemicals and their biological dance partners coursed through her.

One hundred twenty-one-degree turn meant that the track curved back on itself it was would not be visible for a few moments.

No _real_ danger.

The car tipped over the apex and dove toward the ground.

And it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Sherlock to throw her arms in the air.

And scream.

* * *

Platform.

Sherlock’s body tingled as she got to her feet.

She stumbled and grabbed a handrail of the car. Her other hand accidently brushed her cheek.

She froze, staring at her wet fingers.

She’d been screaming. And laughing. And savouring the giddy dizziness.

But crying, too? Extraordinary.

That she had cried and that she hadn’t noticed herself crying.

Sherlock followed her giggling car companions toward the exit gate, casually eavesdropping upon their whispers.

_“What an amazing thing to share with your sister!”_

_“Whom you just met for the first time today.”_

Sherlock stopped as she passed the queue.

She wanted to ride the roller coaster again. Right now.

Dopamine. Lots and lots of dopamine. That was the explanation. She was high. So, of course, she wanted to ride the roller coaster again, with John, of course, and then she wanted to find a very secluded corner of this horrid park and—

Fuck!

John!

The challenge! The clock!

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. Her world spun. Sights, sounds, smells tangled and knotted.

Oh, this was clever. Too clever.

She raised her shields all of them. Tight.

But the ground rose up.

Sherlock reached a hand out and grabbed the back of a bench to stop herself from hitting the pavement.

Thundering cars hurtled into the clear blue sky.

Not now. Later. Now is for John.

Sherlock stood and gently lowered one shield. Then she took a deep breath and turned her head, scanning square by square of her mind’s invisible grid.

Then she stopped. And sniffed. And grinned.

GOTCHA!

* * *

Haunted house?

A haunted house was not a roller coaster.

No more distractions.

Sherlock was too familiar with genuine horror to be fascinated by facsimiles. She was well acquainted with crime scenes, prisons and psychiatric institutions, both occupied and abandoned. She’d dangled off the side of buildings, found herself locked in trunks and shipping containers, and fought off her share of assailant who truly were out of get her.

This? This was theatre. No _real_ danger.

And, more importantly, John’s scent grew stronger with Sherlock’s every step. John was here, somewhere, most likely costumed as one of the monsters or simply hidden in one of the macabre scenes.

Giggling.

Familiar, but not-John giggling.

Sherlock pivoted, made quick note of the twins with their streams of blue and pink hair ribbons and matching jumpers once more behind her in the queue, then turned back and swiftly strode into the first chamber of horrors.

The Grim Reaper greeted the three of them.

He gave an impassioned speech as he approached bearing a scythe. A tall, lean figure in a draping cassock, he loomed, even over Sherlock. His fangs dripped blood; his red eyes shone.

The twins ran, shrieking, into the next chamber, but Sherlock stood motionless.

Boring.

And if John had been there, she would have put a hand on Sherlock’s arm and said, ‘Don’t, Sherlock.’

But John wasn’t here. Not in the flesh and not in Sherlock’s mind, either.

And so Sherlock launched into a little impassioned speech of her own, a rapid-fire list of conclusions she’d drawn in the twenty-seconds she’d had to observe the Grim Reaper.

And by the time she’d finished, he was paled even beneath his grease paint. He emitted a not-very-menacing squeak, and the grip on his scythe seemed to slip just a bit.

Sherlock gave him a nod and left the chamber.

Two can play the scare game, and, John would agree, he really should get that looked at.

Sherlock’s hope of finding John in the Bedlam chamber quickly soured. John wasn’t the scary doctor. Or the scary nurse. Or the patients throwing themselves at the glass screaming. Or the hideous creatures bungee cording from the ceiling.

Tedious. Next.

Creepy priest.

Boring. Next.

Devils and minions.

Boring and boring.

Greek chorus of ghouls.

Bor—wait.

NOT BORING.

Sherlock walked slowly along the edge of the path as the collective moans rose to a deafening roar.

Third from the end.

She grabbed the peak of the black hood and yanked.

GOTCHA!

John grinned. She raised her arm and a long dark sleeve slid back to reveal the face of a stop-watch on a gloved hand.

_Ten seconds left, you git. You do love to be dramatic._

**_Says the woman got up like Mephistopheles’ wet dream. Come here._ **

And with that John launched herself into Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock lifted John and her many metres of costume over the railing. Then they stood face-to-face as the ghouls continued to chant and visitors flowed around them.

As their lips met, Sherlock dropped her shields and felt John lower hers as well, and what might have been a dangerous state of vulnerability for both Sentinel and Guide resulted in the exact opposite.

They were the only two people in the world.

John had likened the sensation to a fizzy drink under the skin, and it was as apt a description as any.

Sherlock welcomed the bubbling—euphoric and calming—into her and let it fill her. Her body thrummed with heady effervescence, but her mind stilled.

And she didn’t do. Or think.

She simply _was_. With John. They _were_.

_I love you, Sherlock._

**_I’ll always find you, John. Always._  ** 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial draws Sherlock & John to a suicide forest. Warning for discussion of death, implied/reference suicide, apparent suicide,
> 
> This is based on Chapter 6 of Kerr's _Scream: Chilling Adventures in the Science of Fear_ , which is about the Aokigahara forest in Japan.

Light momentarily blinded Sherlock as she and John exited the haunted house.

“Did you like the roller coaster?” asked John. She wrapped a hideous scarf, a woolly, oatmeal-coloured, neckwear cousin of her jumpers, ‘round her neck and sent an invisible pulse to Sherlock that felt like a kiss pressed to centre of Sherlock’s nape.

“Very much,” said Sherlock, trying not to blush at gesture. “My first time, too.”

“Really? Sorry I missed that.”

The neck-kissing continued until Sherlock was lightheaded. “If we had time,” she murmured and reached for John’s hand, allowing a bit of her post-roller-coaster desire pass between them.

In the next moment, a group of teenagers pushed between them, and Sherlock was forced to release John’s hand. She stopped and waited for the group to pass. Then she smirked at John’s shock.

“That good?” asked John, wide-eyed.

Sherlock nodded. “Better.”

John grinned. Then she glanced at the steel scaffolding in the distance. “Do we have time for a break?”

John’s burgeoning lust pulsed across their bond, but Sherlock’s next observation was like a cold shower: a bracelet made of braided pink and blue ribbon hung on John’s wrist.

“Where did you get that?” asked Sherlock.

John looked down and swatted at her hand as if there was a bug on it.

“I’ve never seen it before in my life! Someone just put it on me. One of that group.”

“The next trial has to do with two girls I met on the roller coaster. They were also behind me in the queue for the haunted house.” Sherlock sent John a mental image of the sisters.

“Identical twins?” asked John.

“Yes, I overheard their conversation. They’d just met today.”

“That’s rich! ‘It’s never secret twins.’ Someone has a sense of humour.”

“Indeed.”

“We should station ourselves near the exit. We can catch them as they leave.”

Sherlock dropped her visual shield and scanned the crowd beyond the gates.

“Unless they’ve already left,” she said as she took off running.

_Wait, Sherlock! You see them?_

**_Boarding a bus. Top of the hill._ **

_We’ll never catch them._

**_Run, John!_ **

* * *

 

_Sherlock, we are not stealing this motorbike._

**_Borrowing._ **

_I’m certain the owner won’t make the distinction._

**_Now, John._ **

_Okay, but I’m driving._

**_No,_ I’m _driving._**

John put her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock knees buckled and she fell against the bike.

_I have a thing for motorbikes, Sherlock._

**_Yeah, I’m getting that. Oh, God._ **

What Sherlock was getting was a full sensory assault, a wrecking ball to her Sentinel world. She saw John’s nude body draped over hers, heard John’s sweet pleas for more, smelled John’s arousal, tasted John’s sex, and felt the first vibrations of a long, delicious orgasm.

_Driving will distract me. Shields up, Sherlock._

Sherlock gripped the chrome and whispered hoarsely, “Yeah, you drive, I’ll navigate.”

* * *

**_Left at the fork, John._ **

_Okay._

**_Motorbike-as-aphrodisiac was a surprise._ **

_Well, it hasn’t really come up yet, has it? Case or otherwise._

_After the trials, John._

**_Roller coaster. Then, motorbike._ **

_Yes._

* * *

The bus made several stops, but the sisters did not appear.

The bike slowed as Sherlock and John climbed a steep hill. The road was flanked on both sides by thick vegetation. When they crested the ridge, a chill gripped Sherlock as she spied a flash of blue and pink against a white sign in the far distance.

**_SHIELDS UP, JOHN!_ **

_What’s going on, Sherlock? What does that sign say? Even if I could read it, I wouldn’t understand it_.

**_We can hide the bike in that ditch over there and walk from here. Less conspicuous. They’re going into the forest up there._ **

_Sherlock!_

Sherlock ignored John until the bike was abandoned and they stood, holding hands.

_We’re in this trial together, Sherlock. It’s supposed to be about us as a team as much as our individual strengths. Tell me what’s going on, and don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ Shields or no shields, I can see you, even if I can’t see the sign._

**_There was no reason to upset you prematurely, John._ **

_Too late!_

**_The sign says “Your life is a precious gift from your parents. Please think about your family. Don’t keep it to yourself. Talk about your troubles.’_ **

As John blinked, Sherlock saw the colour drain from John’s face.

_It’s a suicide forest._

Sherlock wasted no time in drawing John into her arms and sending pulses of warm, reassuring love along their bond.

**_The girls are the next trial, John. The Sentinel must find them…_ **

_…and the Guide must stop them from taking their own lives or each other’s._

* * *

 

“These woods are gorgeous,” said John as they hiked into the forest. She fell into her usual pace of two quick strides to Sherlock’s one. “Bit surreal, thought.”

“Do you have any string?”

“Will this scarf you hate do?”

Sherlock smiled. “Win-win.”

Sherlock tugged at one end of the scarf, then cut several lengths of the oatmeal-coloured yarn with a pocket knife.

“Even with my senses, a bread crumb or two won’t go amiss in a place like this. On my signal, tie one around a tree.”

“You think we’re going to get lost?” exclaimed John, incredulously.

“Look, John. What do you see?”

“Trees, branches, leaves, tree trunks, tree roots, moss-covered rocks. It’s difficult to tell where the ground stops and the trees begin. Like a horrible jigsaw puzzle.”

“Precisely. It is another brilliant challenge for a Sentinel, but vastly different from the amusement park. There it was the crowd and the sensory onslaught, here it is the uniformity. Everything looks the same. Green and brown, all bathed in the shadow of the forest canopy. In the amusement park, there was too much noise; here there is too much silence.” Then she added wryly. “I used to love those horrible jigsaw puzzles.”

“Why am I not surprised?” said John, grinning. “Well, it’s no secret what the challenge is for me. The grief, pain, and suffering are strong here, Sherlock. Even with my shields up, I can feel the burden pressing down on me.”

Sherlock took John’s hand in hers. “No Guide has more empathy than you, John. You can do this.”

John smiled and nodded. “Then let’s get on with it.”

“Give me another sniff of the ribbons.”

John held up her wrist. “My Sentinel sleuthhound,” she teased.

* * *

Sherlock turned her head slowly, left, right, left, right, letting her eyes scan the landscape. Twice her ears detected a noise; she stopped abruptly, closing her eyes and tilting her head, locating the source and identifying the nature of the sound before continuing her tracking.

Sherlock led, John followed. And Sherlock did not so much as sense as _know_ John’s presence behind her. Their bond was the leash which tethered Sentinel to Guide.

_Do you think about death, Sherlock?_

**_Constantly._ **

_Not as in ‘cause of death,’ but as in your own. What do you think that final moment feels like?_

**_Not helpful, John. They left the path here. Or up there? I am going to investigate that patch of volcanic rock. Tie a string around this tree. I’ll signal if I want you to join me. Or I’ll return here if it’s a false lead. Wait here._ **

As Sherlock climbed the ridge, John, at once formed and formless, prattled on in Sherlock’s mind.

_Do you think we’ll be holding hands when we die? What will happen to our bond if we don’t die at the same time? I bet Mycroft knows. Will one of us become a ghost? Maybe I’ll haunt your Mind Palace!_

**_You already do. And still not helpful, John._ **

_Statistically speaking, we’ll die of cancer, heart disease or stroke, but I suppose you and I are outliers given our lifestyle. We could die on a case. Murdered. Shot. Drowned. Hit on the head. Oh, this is comfortable._

Sherlock huffed.

**_I doubt that being hit on the head qualifies as ‘comfortable,’ John._ **

_No, not that. These tree roots have grown into a perfect, nature-made chair. With armrests! Ah. I’m the older of the two of us. I’ll probably die first. I hope I die first. I can’t imagine living ten, twenty years without you._

**_Really, really not helpful, John._ **

_This place, Sherlock, it makes you think. How the body decomposes. The oozing. The colours. The weight. The smells. The insects. The time it takes to be reduced to ash, to return to the earth from whence you came. This mystical, writhing, teeming earth. The forest floor almost looks alive, like it could just swallow you up. You can see why people come here to…ARGH!_

John’s fear was a prick of ice to Sherlock’s heart.

“JOHN!”

Sherlock raced back down the ridge.

“A shoe, Sherlock! Someone’s shoe! Oh, God!”

Sherlock circled the tree and found John at its base. Then she grabbed her about the shoulders and dragged her back to the path. She put her hands on either side of John’s head, a gesture of Sentinel dominance she rarely employed.

She held John’s gaze tightly, held her head tightly, held her mind tightly.

“Focus, John. Relax too much and the history of this place will distract you from the trial. Conserve your empathy. As soon as we find the girls, it will be your show.”

And like the once-and-always soldier that she was, John replied,

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Sherlock could not help but think of Moses as she watched John, both her arms up as if about to part a sea.

“My name is John. This is Sherlock.”

Sherlock repeated John’s words in the language that she’d overheard the girls speaking between themselves. She needn’t have done it, however. The girls understood John even if they didn’t understand John; that was how Guide empathy worked.

And John was a very good Guide.

Sherlock was crouched in a ball on the floor of the forest behind John, her own body rested against John’s calves, but she was almost hidden due to the slope and the thick undergrowth. She closed her eyes and sent John a constant stream of love and confidence and strength along their bond: images of their successes; words of genuine encouragement; the pride of victories, small and large, that they’d shared.

Sherlock needed to bolster John because John’s shields were completely down. They had to be down for John to send out her empathy to the two girls, each perched on a pair of spindly wooden platforms in the trees. The girls looked like trapeze artists about to take flight.

But there was no net to catch them.

As John sent her empathy out, she drew the girls’ despair into her, drawing it hand-over-hand as if it were thick, heavy rope. When the tipping point of this exchange was reached, when hope outweighed hopelessness, the girls would be open to revisiting their decision.

The challenge for John was to make this exchange, reach this tipping point, without swooning. Swooning was not a Victorian woman on a sofa calling for her smelling salts; it was a Guide going into empathetic arrest.

John had swooned three times since Sherlock had met her, and each time was more terrifying for Sherlock than the previous. The first time was, however, reminiscent of this moment: John had tried to help a family grieving the death of a loved one’s suicide at Christmas time and ended up lost in her own mind.

Sherlock had rescued her then, and she would rescue her now, if needed, but that would mean failing the trial.

And Sherlock wanted to win as much as John did.

And what an incredible trial it was, though Sherlock did not consider it brilliant or even clever because what amounted to torturing John, even when John volunteered and consented, was neither of those things to her. It was a trial well-suited for testing John’s vulnerability, for if one suicide was enough to make John swoon, preventing two whilst keeping the darkness of this place from crushing her was a bespoke Olympic battle.

For not only was John consuming, for lack of a more precise word, the girls’ sorrow, she was also keeping the sorrow of the whole forest, the memory of all the despair that had been felt and acted upon here, from overwhelming her.

John could feel it, Sherlock knew, and Sherlock’s job was to help John to maintain her empathetic resources as John did her work, to refill John’s tank, so to speak.

Sherlock sensed John’s burgeoning joy. The girls’ sorrow must be lifting. Time to act quickly.

John spoke,

“Listen, I am a storyteller, people read my stories and they like them—even queens or so I’m told. I know when I’m in the presence of a story. You two have a story to tell, and I want to hear it.”

John wasn’t lying. At crime scenes, Sherlock often had to tear her away from victim’s families and suspects, she became so absorbed in listening to their stories.

“Please come down and tell me and Sherlock your story. Then if you want to return to your task, I won’t stop you, but what’s five minutes of your time? Tell your stories separately and then tell them together. You’ve my full attention. Shouldn’t at least one person know the whole tale?”

A good strategy. Buy time. Get them physically closer so that John’s empathy would be stronger. And not a lie. They did have John’s full attention. At times like these, as when John’s shields were up, Sherlock could override John’s desires and insert herself. Most of the time Sherlock considered it a violation and would not, but—

Sherlock felt something. She lowered her tactile shield carefully and confirmed her suspicions.

**_John—_ **

_Not now Sherlock. They are about to come down._

**_Not fast enough and not in the way you think._ **

The ground began to tremble. The trees began to tremble. The flimsy platforms beneath the girls’ feet began to tremble.

**_Seismic activity._ **

_Seismic activity? Oh, God! Earthquake!_

“JUMP!” cried John.

The platforms collapsed. The girls fell.

And the forest floor opened its gaping maw and swallowed the two figures whole.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock must watch John battle a ghost on her own.
> 
> Warnings for non-graphic references to child abuse, orphanages, and arson.

“No one goes to the beach on a day like this. It looks like a scene in a film right before the zombies attack,” said John.

She and Sherlock passed by colourful signs for warm weather diversions, but the shops and stalls were all closed. Alone on the pavement, they walked holding hands. Sherlock sent pulses of soothing warmth along their bond, but John resisted consolation, refused to surrender her gloom, which Sherlock felt, too, as cold and miserable as the pissing rain that fell upon them.

**_You did not fail, John._ **

_No._ You _did not fail, Sherlock._

The argument might have reared its tiresome head once more if John hadn’t stopped short.

_Do you see it?_

**_Yes._ **

The shop was tucked between the Giggles-a-lot Play Arcade and the OMG Photo Studio. The exterior walls were painted-on stone decorated with painted-on blood splatter, but it was the two crucified mannequins decorating the shop front that caught Sherlock’s eye.

They were dressed in long, shapeless gowns and surrounded by vines, yellow caution tape, and cobwebs, and in their long hair were ribbons, pink and blue.

John took a step toward the entrance.

_Wish me luck._

**_I’m going with_ **

_No, you aren’t. Shields up, Sherlock._

**_John._ **

The sweet, nectar-like sensation that flooded Sherlock did nothing to ease her anxiety. Now that the moment was here, she did not want John to go, and she certainly did not want her to go alone.

_I need you to be strong, Sherlock. Truly strong, not brittle._

**_I love you, John._ **

John smiled.

_See you on the other side._

As soon as John disappeared through the door, two figures in dark suits emerged from the Play Arcade.

“This way, Miss Holmes.”

* * *

Sherlock read the laminated sheet of paper that she was given quickly.

A story about two sisters who had set fire their orphanage to the ground to protest their abuse at the hands of their so-called caregiver. This place, called the Daiba school, was purportedly built atop the ruins of the orphanage. John’s task was to reach the centre of a maze and burn a strip of holy text in a fire there. This act would both vanquish the ghost of the old man, the girls’ abuser, who haunted the place and set free the girls’ captive spirits.

Clever. Seasonal, too. Ghosts.

To Sherlock, the story was melodramatic and trite, but John would find it compelling, despite logic and the awareness that her emotions were being manipulated that others might evaluate her skills as a Guide. The story also played on John’s vulnerability in the immediate wake of her perceived failure. She would have to navigate the sea of emotions, her own and those around her, as well as physical threats with her shields down and without her Sentinel.

Swooning was a real possibility.

A trio of screens lit one-by-one.

John. In a corridor.

A horn blast. A strobe light. Perhaps a burst of cold air by the way John jumped.

Sherlock’s hands hung clenched fists by her side.

John swung a torch back and forth and finally found the figure that Sherlock could readily see: a tall, thin mannequin in a worn dressing gown, face hidden by a curtain of dark, waist-length hair; its arm outstretched, elbows bent and hands hanging loosely.

John took a step toward the figure.

It lifted his head. And turned its red eyes on John. And charged.

John fled down the corridor, screaming.

Sherlock screamed, too. And threw the screen into the wall.

* * *

“No one touches me but John!” roared Sherlock.

Mycroft waved the nurse away. When the door closed, Mycroft said,

“Sherlock, this is just the beginning. The whole point of the trial is to test you together _and_ separately.”

“She’s afraid, Mycroft! My Guide is afraid and I am not supposed to help her! Oh, what do you know? You don’t have a Guide!”

“No, I have an army.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed, so did Mycroft’s.

“I mean,” said Mycroft, smoothing her tie. “I have a staff.”

Sherlock smirked. “Most powerful Sentinel in the land and you have to _command_ assistance.” She might have continued her jabs but just then her attention was drawn to the second screen.

The ghost was chasing John. John slammed into a wall, and the torch slipped out of her hand. She flailed like a moth, turning left, right, then racing along the corridor until her path was blocked. Then she slumped against the wall, sliding to a crouch, her eyes pinched shut.

“I’m dropping my shields, Mycroft. This is no trial, this is torture! I will not let you harm her!”

The ghost loomed. John trembled.

And at John’s trembling, Sherlock lunged at the second screen.

Mycroft blocked her.

“And I won’t let you destroy more government property. Sherlock, per the agreement you signed—”

“Sod the agreement! Look at her!”

The ghost had vanished. John was still crumpled on the ground, shaking her head and, Sherlock knew, for Sherlock knew all of John’s body language, silently berating herself.

“—if you force me to sedate you, Sherlock—”

“I’d like to see you try!”

“—you’ll forfeit the trial for you and John.”

“I don’t give a damn about your trial!”

“Maybe not. But what about John? Does she want to succeed? She needs to be as good as a Guide as you are as a Sentinel.”

“She is!”

Mycroft held Sherlock’s gaze until Sherlock looked at the screen at the still-crumpled John.

“But,” said Sherlock. “Sometimes she _thinks_ she’s rubbish.”

“And that has to stop if she wants to be a part of this team. And you have to be able to let her work alone as well as with you.”

They turned their heads toward the screen where John was slowly getting to her feet and walking back to recover the fallen torch. She retraced her steps for the third time, but the maze had shifted to reveal a new passageway.

Sherlock winced at the hesitation in John’s first step further into the maze.

“She’s forcing herself. If she swoons, Mycroft—”

“She will not perish from swooning. That’s in the agreement.”

Sherlock turned and fixed her sister with an icy stare. “You really don’t have a Guide, do you? Wonder why?”

* * *

Bile rose in Sherlock’s throat.

John was walking through a dark room with two rows of child-sized cots, rusted and scorched. Broken windows and dark child-sized handprints on smoked glass. John stopped, looked down.

“Don’t,” breathed Sherlock. “Keep going.”

John picked up an object from the floor.

A plush bear, ragged and burnt.

John closed her eyes.

Sherlock moved closer to the screen. “Keep going. Focus your empathy. It’s just a crime scene. A very old one. We’ve done this, a hundred times.”

Then John turned her head. Sherlock smiled.

“She looks like you when you’re on the scent. I suppose she’s learned a thing or two,” said Mycroft over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’ve learned more from her,” said Sherlock as one corner of John’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Get ‘im, John!”

* * *

A great hall filled with debris.

Splintered pieces of wood. Bits of metal frames. Rubbish.

John at one end. A petrol drum bonfire ablaze at the other.

John smiled and sank her hand in her pocket.

“She knows the girls are close,” said Sherlock.

John looked up.

A spotlight shone on a pair of heads like canaries in gilded cage, a pair of heads with dark hair tied with pink and blue ribbon.

John looked back at the fire.

The ghost blocked her way.

He snarled and bared two rows of crooked teeth.

“He’s a thug, John. Just a thug,” murmured Sherlock.

“Not quite,” said Mycroft.

The ghost charged John once more. She made to throw him, but he clung to her and they fell to the ground together. John punched and kicked and twisted.

“Her empathy has to work as hard, and as quickly, as her body. He’s not just throwing punches. He’s throwing hate and fear and anger.”

“Mycroft—” began Sherlock, rising to her feet.

John and the ghost wrestled. The ghost scrambled atop John and pinned her and—

_WHAM!_

The ghost’s fists connected with John’s eye.

Sherlock threw the second screen.

* * *

“LET ME GO, MYCROFT!”

“THIS IS YOUR FINAL CHANCE, SHERLOCK! DO YOU TRUST HER?”

“OF COURSE, I TRUST—”

“TRUST HER STRENGTH AS A GUIDE? DO YOU? IS SHE YOUR PARTNER? OR YOUR CHARGE?”

Sherlock watched as John fell limp. She wrenched out of Mycroft’s grip and pressed face to screen.

“She’s not swooning,” Sherlock said excitedly. “I know her swoon, that’s not it.

The ghost halted his attack. He frowned and cocked his head, the looked straight into whatever camera was transmitting to the screen and shrugged.

“She’s eating his hate,” said Sherlock. “He doesn’t know what to do.”

Suddenly, John sprang, reaching both arms over her head, grabbing the end of a charred metal rod, and bringing it down on his head.

He collapsed.

Then John stabbed him in the chest with the rod.

There was the smallest of sounds, that of the most powerful Sentinel in the land witnessing something most unexpected, and then a much more professional tone whispering, ‘Alert the medical team. No, not the Guide team.’

Sherlock grinned. “Just like a harpoon, John. Fell the beast.”

The ghost collapsed.

John twisted from under him. She got to her feet and stumbled towards the bonfire, but the bleeding ghost reared up and shuffled forward on his knees. He lunged and grasped John about the waist.

But he was too late.

John’s fist was already over the fire and opening.

The tiny coil of paper dropped.

“SHE DID IT!” cheered Sherlock, jumping in the air. She turned. “Mycroft?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mycroft with her phone to her ear.

Sherlock ran toward the door, but stopped when she heard,

“Miss Holmes.”

The two women, for they were not girls at all, spoke in unison.

Sherlock smiled. “I almost didn’t recognise you without your hair ribbons and matching jumpers.”

They grinned. “Congratulations to you and Doctor Watson.”

“The stage lost a remarkable pair of actors when you two decided to fall in with her,” she waved at Mycroft, “lot. You played your parts beautifully. But how did you fool John? She’d know if your emotions were fabricated.”

They turned at Mycroft who, though still talking in the mobile, gave a nod.

“We’re un-Mutes,” they said.

“Interesting. New. Well, I’m certain I’ll learn about you and many other things soon enough, but I have a Guide—”

They nodded and waved good-bye.

Sherlock burst through the doors and dropped her shields, throwing reams of pride and love at John and using all her senses to find her Guide in a matter of seconds.

Then Sherlock was scooping John up in her arms and carrying her out of the great hall.

**_You were fabulous!_ **

_I am surprised you’re still standing. I thought you’d be sedated by now._

**_Nonsense! I wouldn’t miss watching my Guide kicking a ghost’s arse for the world!_ **

_I hurt that fellow, Sherlock._

**_He’ll heal. So will you._ **

_Did we pass the trial?_

**_Of course, we passed._ **

_We’re the newest additions to Mycroft’s special assignments roster?_

**_Yes, and even better._ **

_Better?_

**_We’re the best Sentinel and Guide team in the land!_ **

_I think that calls for a celebration._

**_Motorcycles?_ **

_Hmm. And roller coasters. And maybe a haunted Mind Palace?_

**_Why not? After all, it is Hallowe’en._ **


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John celebrate the end of the trial. Warning for frottage and mentions of cunnilingus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four days late, but I hope you still enjoy!

“Oh, God, you really like roller coasters,” groaned John as they exited, still holding hands.

“Again, please?” asked Sherlock.

“When you smile like that? Yeah, let’s go again.”

Sherlock led John toward the end of the queue.

* * *

 

“Sherlock, five is my limit—”

“Yes, mine, too.”

Sherlock dropped John’s hand and stepped in front of her. She turned left, then right, then fiddled with the collar of her coat and unfastened and refastened the top two buttons.

John smiled.

“Why don’t we find a quiet corner and have a cup of tea?”

_And a mind-shag._

Sherlock nodded.

* * *

John placed her fingers at Sherlock’s temples. The first time they’d done this, soon after they’d met, John had repaired Sherlock’s Mind Palace, a cerebral edifice damaged from years of abuse and neglect. Since then John had been inside Sherlock’s Mind Palace many times, and Sherlock enjoyed every visit.

But this visit would be singular.

_Oh, my, Sherlock._

**_Too forward?_ **

John usually stood outside the Mind Palace, whose appearance John had aptly described as part Versailles and part Bodleian, then climbed the steps and entered. There was a great hall which gave onto chambers on either side. One chamber was a replica of 221b. There was also an entire wing devoted to archiving information about John.

This time, John had manifested, without preamble, ‘behind the aubergine curtain,’ an interior chamber dedicated exclusively to Sherlock’s sexual fantasy.

John was nude on a bed. She faced the headboard, sitting on her heels.

**_Cold?_ **

_Not at all. The roller coaster was quite the aphrodisiac. I sensed your arousal, but misjudged the urgency. Oh._

John pinched her own nipples between thumbs and the side her forefingers.

**_I apologise. There’s usually far more care given to preparatory matters._ **

_Yeah, Sherlock Holmes is very rarely this much of a randy goat of a Sentinel. And never in public. But does it look like I’m complaining?_

John spilled forward, then twisted onto her back, legs splayed. Her lovely bush was damp, so very damp that Sherlock stifled a groan.

John dug her heels in the bed and lifted her hips.

**_Oh, God, John._ **

_Come, Sherlock. Shake this Palace to its foundations. Just like the roller coaster when it thunders down the track._

John closed her eyes and arched her back. One hand toyed with her nipple, another fondled her bush.

Sherlock’s arousal built until, as John bid, the Mind Palace shook as if the very ground beneath it would split in two.

When the vibrations began to slow, John lifted her head.

_Ready, Sherlock?_

**_Yes._ **

And what happened next, Sherlock did not wholly understand, but as the John in Sherlock’s Mind Palace drew on a dressing gown and slippers, the John outside Sherlock’s Mind Palace, the Guide, the one who sat opposite Sherlock beside a table with two bubble teas, the one who still held her hands to the sides of Sherlock’s head, removed Sherlock’s arousal. It was like a withdrawal, the mental equivalent of having a hotel attendant pack a suitcase and deposit it to the kerb for collection.

It had taken Sherlock and John quite a long time to perfect the process, but Sherlock absolutely cherished it. It freed her from what would otherwise be a burden.

She opened her eyes as John dropped her hands.

“I don’t know how you do that,” Sherlock confessed.

John winked. “Guide secret.”

“I am so very grateful, John. It’s unprecedented that I find myself in this state outside of a bedroom. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the physical sensation, but—”

They’d had this conversation many times.

“I understand, Sherlock. I don’t expect you to be comfortable here, but you couldn’t wait.”

“And now it’s your turn, John.”

* * *

“FUCK!” yelled Sherlock into the wind.

“Sorry!” screamed John.

_I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’ll raise my shields._

**_No! I was simply unprepared for the intensity of your arousal and that was the second longest climax that you have experienced in my company._ **

_You keep a record._

**_Of everything, John._ **

_I really like motorcycles._

**_Yes, and we’re traveling at a rate of one hundred twelve miles per hour._ **

_Yeah, I think you should slow down a bit because—oh, God, it feels so good, Sherlock, it hits just the right spot in just the right way, over and over—_

Sherlock swallowed. Her attention was dangerously divided between the road and John. John, whose body was loosely pressed behind hers, but whose lust was a fire that showed no signs of dying. Or containment.

Except no! There was a splash of cold water dousing the flames.

“Sherlock! Do not text and drive! You will get us killed!”

“The plan was to reach the coast today,” said Sherlock, tapping her mobile with her thumb. “But I underestimated the level of distraction. A lengthy journey is out of the question. How about a night in a secluded mountain cabin?”

“Sounds good. But slow down. And stop texting.”

“There,” said Sherlock, putting away her mobile. “It’s waiting for us.”

“How far?”

“Thirty miles.”

John curled her arms around Sherlock’s waist and gave her a gentle squeeze.

_I think I could break my record, Sherlock. Shall I try for a thirty-mile orgasm?_

**_Oh, God._ **

* * *

 

Siren’s song.

That’s what it felt like.

John drew Sherlock to her, physically, mentally.

It was the most bewitching of spells.

Sherlock crowded John, kissing her neck and chin and jawline, until John’s back was against the cabin wall. Then Sherlock aided in the swift removal of John’s clothing.

Once nude, John sprang, wrapping her legs around Sherlock’s waist; at the same time, Sherlock waved the tail of the Belstaff so that it covered John.

Then Sherlock began to grind her hips into John’s. John slipped her arms between shirt and coat and clung to Sherlock, riding the undulations like ocean waves.

“Fuck, yes; fuck, yes,” chanted John, throwing her head back, offering more skin for Sherlock’s kisses.

John’s orgasm was building. Strangely, second-hand pleasure, that is, John’s pleasure via their bond, held none of the disadvantages of Sherlock’s own. She could enjoy it as long and as much as John allowed.

But before the motorcycle, there had never been quite so much of it in which to revel.

John was coming, moaning Sherlock’s name, within and without.

Smiley, wet, sloppy kisses.

_I’m such a little tart._

**_Hmm._ **

Sherlock thrust her hips hard against John.

_Oh! Do it again!_

Sherlock obliged. John’s desire wasn’t abating as it usually did. She thrust again.

_Oh, fuck!_

Sherlock pinned John’s lower half against the wall, then placed her own hands on John’s arms. With Sherlock guiding, through touch and thought, John drew her arms up over her head and held them against the wall.

Sherlock kissed down the sensitive skin of John’s inner arm while her hips continued rolling. Sherlock paused when she reached John’s armpit.

_Sherlock, I need a wash._

Feeble protest. John’s desire was seconds away from cresting anew.

**_Please, John. I’m a sleuthhound. The scent’s everything._ **

_Oh, fuck it, yeah! Smell whatever you want, just don’t stop fucking me._

**_Silly John. Why on earth would I stop fucking you?_ **

Sherlock buried her nose in John’s armpit.

John giggled and squeezed her legs tighter ‘round Sherlock’s waist.

_It tickles, Sherlock._

John’s laughter. Entire shelves in Sherlock’s Mind Palace were devoted to John’s laughter.

Sherlock nuzzled again.

_Oh, God, oh, God. Sherlock!_

And an entire library of how John said Sherlock’s name.

John dropped her arms and grabbed Sherlock’s head.

_You aren’t putting your tongue in my cunt until I’ve washed._

**_You want my tongue in your cunt?_ **

John bit her lip, then nodded. _A lot. S’okay?_

**_Oh, God, John. The first item upon return to England is to purchase a motorbike._ **

_No! I don’t think I’d survive it._

Sherlock nodded.

**_Sadly, I don’t think I’d survive, either, and the criminal classes would run amok._ **

She looked over her shoulder.

**_Shower?_ **

_After you fuck me on the bed in the coat._

**_John?!_ **

_Too forward?_

Sherlock smiled and shook her head.

**_Not at all._ **

* * *

 

**_Fuck!_ **

_Is this how you saw it? In the Mind Palace?_

John was nude on the bed, sitting much as she’d been in the Mind Palace, but for a pillow tucked tightly between her legs.

**_Yes._ **

Sherlock knelt on the bed behind John, looking down over John’s shoulder, watching her toy with her nipples and rock atop the pillow.

**_You like that I’m dressed?_ **

This was new.

_Very naughty. Makes me feel like you paid for the pleasure._

**_Price above rubies. May I?_ **

John nodded.

Sherlock brushed John’s nipples with her thumbs. Once, twice, and John’s orgasm ripped through both of them.

**_Fuck, John!_ **

_Hmm._

Then John was bombarding Sherlock with sensory data.

Water. Steam. Skin. Moans. Cries. Pleas.

And the smell, then the taste, of John’s sex.

Sherlock didn’t realise that she’d closed her eyes until she was opening them, to the sight of John’s splayed legs and damp cunt.

_One kiss, then a wash, Sherlock._

Sherlock smirked.

John giggled.

_Oh, no, don’t even try that Big Bad Wolf grin, Sherlock. It doesn’t work—_

In short, it did work. Then John finally got her much-desired wash, and Sherlock got to collect more data for her John archive. And they ended up in a nude, sleepy tangle on the bed.

_I was promised a haunted house, Sherlock._

Sherlock cracked one eye and reached for her mobile.

**_There’s still twenty minutes of Hallowe’en in London. Very well._ **

Sherlock rolled on her side, facing John. John placed her fingers on the side of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock closed her eyes.

* * *

John stood at the far end of the bridge as lightning crack, thunder boomed, rained poured, and the opening strands of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor rang out.

_Oh, no! Whatever shall I do? I am stranded in a storm on Hallowe’en. Look! I hope that Mind Palace is not haunted._

John hurried across the bridge and up the stairs.

**_Hark! Who goes there?_ **

An iridescent, hovering mass greeted John.

_A lost traveler seeking shelter from the storm. Oh, no!_

A chaotic fluttering. A burst of eerie, but excited squeaks.

John looked up at the cobwebbed ceiling.

_Do you have bats in your belfry, Sherlock?_

**_A few._ **

Suddenly, the great hall was awash in warm candle light and glowing grins.

_Oh, jack o’ lanterns! Lovely._

A furry, long-tailed creature appeared from behind one enormous carved pumpkin. It scurried down the hall and vanished.

_That is a very large rat, Sherlock._

**_It’s an opossum named Mycroft._ **

John laughed.

**_Toffee apples? Cider? I believe a costume or two can be wrangled if you’d like to trick-or-treat, though Mycroft may have eaten all the sweets._ **

John considered.

_How about ghost stories told by a ghost before the fire at 221b?_

**_Sounds like the perfect way to celebrate the end of our trial by ghost, John._ **

The spectre extended a phantom limb.

**_This way, my dear. And, oh, moo-hoo-ha-ha!_ **

**_Happy Hallowe’en!_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
